It’s the end of another year and I feel obligated to reflect. To stop and do something I rarely do, look over my shoulder and see what I left behind. But that’s difficult to measure. That’s difficult for me to know. Because, on the surface, very little happened. From this day last year to this day, today, I live where I lived. I work where I worked. I love who I loved. I suppose there is comfort in that. Worlds can easily be thrown into upheaval. I feel fortunate mine has not.
All this quiet, this stillness, however, has afforded a major shift in perspective. I’ve been stirring inside. I’ve been scheming, as always, in the dark. And it would be hard for me to say that nothing has changed.
I might say 2011 was about laying foundation. I’m ready to say that 2012 will be about building.
Last night, I had one of those endless, frustrating dreams. I was trying to hail a yellow taxi in New York City. Not for me. For a friend. I stood on the corner, my arm out high, and I watched the cabs pass us by, one after the other. No one stopped.
I remember the dream-me thinking that I had too great a responsibility to this friend. Because the subway was not running. I did not have a car. The bus was headed downtown only. The taxi was, obviously, a hopeless case. The dream-me said, We’re not getting anywhere.
But the real-me knows better than that.